


Auction

by femme4jack, fractalserpentine, HopeofDawn, Sakiku



Series: Domesticus [10]
Category: Transformers, Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Electricity, Hand Jobs, M/M, Multi, Non Consensual, Other, Powerlessness, Public Nudity, Public Sex, Rape/Non-con - Freeform, Robot Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink, Slavery, Starvation, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:30:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme4jack/pseuds/femme4jack, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractalserpentine/pseuds/fractalserpentine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeofDawn/pseuds/HopeofDawn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sakiku/pseuds/Sakiku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tower Kalis offers a complimentary starter package with all human purchases.  Additional supplies may be ordered according to the following schedule:</p><p>Dihydrogen oxide, per cubic mechanometer: 0.1 credits<br/>Spongiform fuel rations, sufficient for twenty orn: 1.4 credits<br/>Microfiber polishing fabric, per mechanometer: 0.2 credits<br/>Highest-grade synthetic polymer wax, per minicube: 0.7 credits<br/>Qui’lee tch’tlek imported wax, per minicube: 4.4 credits<br/>Carnauba imported wax, per minicube: 12.6 credits</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The rape/noncon archive warning is for the overall themes of this story-verse, which is neck deep in consent issues. We'll continue to use this archive warning on every installment due to the nature of the story-verse. This installment contains semi-explicit rape.

The Kalis organics auction had outgrown its quarters in the courtyard of its patron Tower. Demand had become so high that not even the medium-sized concert hall offered enough space for the several thousand mechs nearly standing on top of each other. Nonetheless, it was still being held there.

The stage had been converted into an auction block, and the awesome acoustics made it so that the announcer’s words could be heard to the last rows. That, or they had some pretty clever sound system. Not that Raoul could understand a single word of the electronic beep-whirring anyway.

He’d been forced to perch on Tracks’ shoulder as to not get squished, and he was bored out of his mind. Sure, ‘go to an auction, see if we can rescue-buy some humans’ had sounded like a really good idea at the time. But couldn’t Tracks have warned him that they’d have to sit through more than half a day of other organics first? 

Right now, they were selling something that looked like a crossbreed between a purple lizard with some serious teeth and a lantern fish, displayed floating in a cube of something that looked like smoke. Raoul couldn’t make out any details because they were too far away - medium-sized concert hall still translated to ‘fucking huge’ with the robots.

// _Güey, when are they gonna get to the humans?_ // he commed to Tracks, trying not to sound like a damn ‘Are we there yet?’ repetition machine. He had asked only twice, after all. Within the last twenty minutes.

// _Patience, Raoul. There are twenty more organics from the Be’eni sector scheduled before they begin with the humans._ //

Raoul grumbled. // _Couldn’t they have done that, like, five hours ago?_ // Really, wasting their time like that, watching an entire alien fucking zoo be paraded in front of them.

// _Tactics, as I have already told you. More than half of the mechs are here for a human. Making them attend all the other auctions first heightens the chance that they will buy some other organics, too. Kalis has enough turnover in the organic trade that they could have easily created a human-centric event and put the rest into another one, but this way Kalis can showcase their entire range of goods._ //

// _I know -_ // Raoul tried to interrupt Tracks’ monologue. It wasn’t as if the mechanic hadn’t told him the same thing already the last time he had asked. And he had figured as much from the unabashed interest that every mech seated around them was showing -- Raoul had already offered his business card-data crystal-thing to a couple. Sometimes, it seemed as if Tracks thought he was stupid.

Tracks continued, undisturbed. // _That, and humans are expensive. Having only four or five at the most per auction keeps excitement - and prices - high. You should think wisely on how much you are willing to spend, Raoul._ //

// _I know!_ // Hijo de puta, Tracks was getting to be as bad as Blaster. Thankfully, Tracks got the hint this time and shut his trap.

Lizard lantern fish went for a bit over a hundred credits, or so his com informed Raoul. And then there came Lizard Lantern Fish the Second, senior edition apparently, because it was at least twice as big as the purple one and looked a hell of a lot meaner.

Raoul wanted to bury his head in his hands.

After a handful of years spent working with Tracks, he had gotten a pretty secure grasp of the economics of it all. Though Tracks and Blaster both were patient teachers, it’d taken him a long time. Not least because concepts like capital reinvestment, cost-benefit, opportunity cost, and supply and demand weren’t exactly something that anyone on the streets had sat down and explained to him. Still, it made a certain amount of sense -- day after the enclave police went through a neighborhood, you’d haveta sell your sister to buy a bit of meat or a bag of apples; but give it a few weeks and things went back to normal, yeah, he got it. Eventually.

Cybertronian credits, he’d figured out, were a helluva lot bigger than commissary creds or dollars or even gold. Used to be that a credit was the price of a full tank of fuel -- no matter what size the mech, apparently. And every working mech used to get one credit an orn -- two weeks, roughly. Didn’t make much sense to Raoul. How did anyone pay for parts back then? What about entertainment, or spiffy paint jobs? But that had led to huge long discussions about some kinda mythical dark times, and Raoul wasn’t in this for no depression-era history lesson. 

The takeaway was that some mechs, like in the lowest part of the army, still made just a credit or two every two weeks, though they got fuel and supplies and stuff on top of that. Forty credits was a bit more common for a mech with a low to middling function, which worked out to a thousand or so a year, even if nobody calculated it like that. Made Raoul feel better about getting a couple hundred and change for each mech he fully serviced -- at least he wasn’t at the bottom of the scrapheap. 

Still, he had to split part of that off for the other guys First Aid’d rescued if he needed a team to do a mech, which was pretty common. Tracks and Blaster had some kinda equation to figure situations where, say, three guys and one of Tracks’s assistants all worked together on a full detail. He’d paid back First Aid and Blaster, when they needed to pay a nominal amount for ‘sick’ or damaged humans. And he’d spent some of what he made on himself -- organic goods like fabric, real food, and potted fruit bushes in miniature atmo-dome greenhouses, were expensive. Fancy Cybertronian tech, though, was cheap -- Raoul could buy and store a whole crate of solar panels, enough to power a village, for the same credit that it cost him to buy a dozen yards of Earth-imported fabric to use for pillows and blankets on his bed.

The upshot, though, was that after setting aside what he’d need to get himself and his loot back to earth, and adding in some of the donations from the other humans at the shop, Raoul had a tidy pile of over a hundred thousand credits. 

Purple Lantern Fish the Senior went for eighty-seven credits. Next was a horned frog thing. “Arrrgh!” 

“Larger schlorp-eee’ting-beeblebeep require more advanced habitats,” Tracks explained helpfully. “And you can’t watch them moult. That’s the fun part.”

Raoul slumped down onto his back. He couldn’t even sleep with all these goddamn lights. He fished the tiny datapad out of his pocket and flicked it on, scrolling idly through the list of humans again. Four men and a chica. Two of the guys and the chica were being marketed as ‘Tower Seconds.’ Having a chica here was apparently real unusual -- Raoul had seen just one, briefly, during his time in the Towers. Tracks had collected the three women at the shop from the open air secondary markets. None of them had very high teek levels, apparently, so they did a lot of polishing and detailing and were good at it, but rarely took interface cables, ‘cept when they felt like giving freebies to their best customers. Chicas were popular with the mechs, not least for their higher voices, smaller hands, and towerling-like bodies. Easier on human eyes, too.

Dudes one and three had been ‘rescued’ from the eastern side of Earth’s primary land mass, and Raoul thought that meant maybe China -- or at least, someplace that didn’t always speak English. Which could be worked around, but a language barrier would make things tough for what he intended. 

Guy number two and four had been traded from Iacon -- that meant probably the ‘States, or what was left of ‘em. Unless Iacon had gotten him from somewhere else.

The girl was both blonde and hot, with sharply intense features. Tower Kalis had imported her -- she might have been in that Tower while Raoul was, or a little after. Not that he would have known about it; it wasn’t like they had let him out of his cube or anything. 

The first line under each human’s picture was some kind of measurement of field strength, but fuck if he knew what exactly the individual spikes meant. He just knew that the more and the higher, the better. Raoul’s own graph -- Tracks had showed him when he’d asked -- looked like a fucking 3-D hedgehog, but Tracks’d said it had gotten better over time. No duh there -- made sense that when he was happy, healthy, and wanted it, his field mojo was better. Well, plus he’d had a lotta practice. And then, of course, there was that time with Shiny and Overkill and their presence that was a whole class of their own. He’d bet that his own field mojo had gone way up there, too, during. Sure had felt like nothing he’d ever felt before.

He shivered, trying not to get hard from the memories alone, and turned his attention back to the datapad.

The second bit was a collection of glyphs that Raoul couldn’t read, and which apparently told the name of the mech selling them. The third line was the starting price of the bids. And although it was a goddamn pain in the ass to convert a tredecimal system into a figure he could actually understand, it had been a damn good idea to learn how to read Cybertronian numbers. Even if it took him half an eternity, and he never got exact results without writing down interim values.

Guy one started at about... oh, fuck Raoul sideways, he had already forgotten again what he had calculated for the shmuck. Somewhere between six and a half, and seven thousand. Guy three, the one with the tamest field line, still had about five thousand to his name, while guys two and four -- both tower-seconds -- were in the range of thirteen thousand. The girl -- the last tower offcast -- started out at twenty thousand.

So, there was still hope. The lizard fish had started out at eighty and hadn’t gone for much more, and with more than a hundred grand to his name he’d be able to buy all five of them. Then again -- he looked around at how many stares he was getting -- he doubted that any of the humans would go for less than triple their starting price. And he really didn’t want to spend all his credits in one go.

Damn, he sounded so callous. This whole situation was callous. But what the frag else could he do?

\----

Raoul jerked out of his light doze when the first of the humans was led onto the stage. Even a blind man couldn’t have missed it -- he could feel it in the sudden hum of attention, the excited flare of fields. Mechs beebled and squeed to one another. A tall mech in front of Tracks straightened up, craning to see, and there was no way Raoul was gonna be able to peer over all these helms even if he stood on top of Tracks’s head. “Fuck!”

// _Not so loud! They’re announcing camera wavelengths now. Give me a klick, and I’ll patch you in._ // 

Raoul sat up, trying to compose himself. In a few moments, an overhead picture snapped into focus, filling most of the screen of his datapad. Helpfully, Tracks put the other viewing angles in boxes off to the side -- when Raoul tapped one, it expanded to fill the screen. The datapad supported an image better than Raoul had ever seen on a TV and was a little thicker than a piece of paper, but Raoul could roll or even fold it. He’d been wary to do so at first, but Tracks didn’t even care if he lost the damn things, they were so cheap.

A low murmur swept the crowd of assembled mechs. And then, off to one side, a bright red minibot walked onto stage. A length of finely woven metal rope led from his hand... down to encircle the neck of a tawny-skinned human. 

“Chingada madre,” Raoul breathed, eyes going wide. The guy was young, or maybe just looked it. Was damn hard telling the age of Asians. He had to trot to keep up with the mech, and nearly fell as he realized that he was being watched by a small sea of glowing optics. The knot around his neck tightened, and he staggered, hurried to catch up.

Tiny letters scrolled across the bottom of the screen -- a translation, so much as Tracks could provide one, as the auctioneer droned on and the poor guy trotted back and forth. This dude was new, apparently, fresh from earth, an import by Tarn. Indonesian, maybe, or Thai or something -- Raoul only caught a glimpse of the map that flashed briefly on his screen and he hadn’t ever paid attention to sixth-grade geography anyway. The dude looked up at the mech leading him, spoke questions that Raoul could not hear. The mech ignored him. 

Raoul wondered what the fuck ‘treated for heightened durability’ was supposed to mean. 

The auctioneer barked a word that Tracks couldn’t translate and tapped a talon on the block beside it. The crimson minibot urged his human to climb the cube, and then tied off the steel rope to a bolt in the center, allowing the dude just enough slack to stand. The minibot pushed a couple of things next to the guy -- a tiny cube of wax, and a square of microfiber. Then the red mech reached for his wrist. 

// _What the fuck -- pinche puta -- Tracks! You didn’t fragging tell me --!_ //

Tracks turned his head, mouthplates folding down. // _That they display the humans? I did tell you!_ //

// _Oh God._ // Raoul swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the little screen. // _Bid now._ //

// _What? Raoul, they haven’t opened--_ //

Did Raoul even have a crew member who spoke Thai, or Indo-whatever? Did it matter? // _Now, do it now! Ten thousand!_ //

Tracks paused, but Raoul could feel it when he complied, in the murmur that went across the crowd, and the glyphs that scrolled over the screen. The minibot spooled out his cable jack, while the human looked up at him nervously, trustingly. -- _Looks like we have some eager bidders out there tonight! Let me remind my honored guests that bids placed on the m’beep*skree are binding, regardless of_ \-- the words trailed off into glyphs for which even Tracks could find no English or Spanish approximate.

The dude reached up, accepting the interface plug with both hands. Then he crouched to scoop up a palmful of the wax. -- _Eleven thousand! The game bleep*chree do I hear_ \-- 

// _Eleven five-hundred._ // Raoul’s hands clenched around the datapad, doing nothing to wrinkle the picture. The video was as clear as if he didn’t have his fingers digging into the edges of the thin sheet. He just couldn’t tear his eyes away from the nervous guy who did his best to apply the wax to the plug -- not clumsy, but definitely not with the kind of inventive touch that could bring a mech to overload just from rubbing and squeezing in the right place.

// _Raoul. What are you attempting to do? You said you would try to ‘keep a cool head’._ //

// _Fuck the cool head! Don’t you see that he’s gonna get raped in front of a shitload of mechs any moment now!?_ // Red was charging up a bit from the plug-fondling, but he played it up for the crowd. There was no way the asian dude was going to bring the mech off ‘fore...

Tracks somehow managed to send a frown over the com implant. // _You cannot stop the demonstration. It is what everyone here has been waiting for. And even if you did for this human, you cannot do so with all five of them._ //

// _I can damn well try! Shit, they’re at twelve-five already, aren’t they? Thirteen. Do it, Tracks!_ //

Tracks did nothing. // _You have taken thoracic plugs from warframes taller than I. Why are you worried about a wrist plug from a minibot? Even without much preparation, it should be well within human design tolerances._ //

// _That doesn’t -- hijo do puta! Tracks, that guy doesn’t want to do it, and that’s all that matters! If it were me up there--_ // He flinched as the red mech removed his plug from the human’s grip. The cable jack was flared at the tip, knobbed and ridged. 

Tracks’s optical ridges drew together. // _Of course I would stop them, and retrieve you. Or any of the others who work with us. That is different._ //

// _How?! How is it fragging different?_ // Raoul’s hands shook as the red minibot forced the guy onto his knees, held his shoulders to the ground, slowly withdrew a black plug from the poor guy’s ass. As far away as they were from the stage and with the many mechs that were humming excitedly, he couldn’t hear anything. But the datapad gave a close-up that showed the guy’s face, and the device. It looked the same as the one Raoul had been forced to take during shipment to Cybertron, albeit smaller. Maybe it just wasn’t unfolded all the way -- if it had been, no way the poor guy could’ve walked anywhere. The young human panted, wriggled, apparently tried to ask a question... and then the minibot exchanged the dildo for his cable jack.

// _Because--_ // Tracks did his best to twist around, carefully scooped Raoul up before he could struggle away. The mech cupped Raoul close to his chest with both hands, uncertain what was wrong with him, but trying to offer comfort all the same. // _Because I *know* all of you!_ // 

On the stage, the human began to cry out, short gasping screams. The datapad showed everything so clearly -- the tears running down his face even though he was as hard as a rock, hips hunching back into the jack even as he sobbed, pinned under the red minibot’s hand. The flared, studded tip of the cable sank in another inch, the little ring of muscle just stretching obscenely to take it. 

This was -- this was rape being sold as live porn, probably just a little pick-me-up to make the credits even looser than they already were, and the entire audience was getting off on it.

Raoul gave Tracks an icy look as the mech’s words registered. Seemed that the not-my-problem disease wasn’t a human invention alone. // _You know, puto, just for that you’re gonna buy him and *get to know* him. And I don’t care if you have to go up to thirty thousand or even more._ // 

It had been a long time since he had called Tracks any names, but right now Raoul could recall in vivid detail just how much he had hated mechs before. The mech up on the stage gave another slow push, sinking half his length inside, demonstrating for the crowd just how tight and hot the human was. The few translatable glyphs on the datapad were obscene. 

// _Raoul, I..._ // Even Tracks seemed to sense Raoul’s fury, fields or no. // _You know my resources are largely tied up in the shops. And for that much, we could save three or four from the secondhand markets._ // Exactly as Tracks had been doing, when he could. And First Aid, and Blaster. Whether the humans were injured or ill or bereft of the will to live -- it didn’t matter. The mechs brought them all to Raoul, or one of the other safe havens. 

It was true. But that didn’t make Tracks’s words any easier to bear. Raoul clenched his fists against the glossy slickness of the mechanic’s chestplates. Another push, and the datajack slid home. The red minibot paused as if for dramatic effect, releasing the poor guy. Whimpering, the human tried to push himself up to trembling hands and knees. He abruptly shuddered and fell, whole body spasming, crying out, hips jerking as he came. An appreciative murmur went through the crowd, all eyes locked on the scene below.

Raoul’s slate ‘helpfully’ provided a diagram of the human’s fields, the result of the electrical stimulation. Raoul squeezed his own eyes shut, and then switched the datapad to translation only, unable to watch any more. The man’s gasping sobs didn’t seem to deter the eager crowd; if anything, the little demonstration--or maybe Raoul’s early bidding--only seemed to spur them on. The top bids piled over each other, the number-glyphs faithfully reporting as the price jumped upwards, and Raoul began to revise his estimates. He clenched and unclenched his fists, trying not to be as much of a voyeur as the rest of those fuckers.

If one of the lower-ranked humans was going for this much, then even with his war chest, he might only be able to buy a couple of them, at best. Especially if he tried to bid on one of the Tower-seconds. But how could he leave the others to these putos? Tracks would help as much as he could, Raoul knew--no matter how much he bitched about ‘unnecessary expenses’--but despite their shop’s recent upsurge in business, the mech simply didn’t have that kind of liquidity. Not compared to the Tower assholes and the other aristos that were here.

Caught up in his private worries, Raoul didn’t notice at first when the bidding slowed. He was still the high bidder at thirty-two thousand, at least--Tracks was taking care of that--but the offers were still trickling in, a few more each time the poor guy shrieked and came. Then the noise of the crowd shifted, changed, a susurrus of surprise and unease rising in the growling revs and electronic chittering of conversation … and Tracks’s frame went still under Raoul’s slight weight, the big mech stiffening, helm lifting.

Any distraction was a good one. “Tracks? What’s going on, hombre?” Raoul asked, shifting up to his knees and then scrambled up to Tracks’s shoulder again. Just good that he had long ago lost his fear of heights and trusted Tracks to catch him if he fell during the climb. 

Back at his old vantage point, he craned his neck to try and see whatever had caught the mechanic’s attention. From this distance, it was hard to see over the sea of helms and wings and shoulder-projections--but it seemed to be … a mech? The late arrival was a big mech, though not as big as some of the warframes in the crowd, the gleaming cobalt and silver of his plating subdued against the brilliant kaleidoscope of colors around him. And yet--mecha were making way, warframes and Towers aristos alike, all stepping back to give this new mech space, as if afraid to get too close.

The cobalt mech headed for the stage. As the crowd parted, Raoul finally got a good look, taking in scarlet-visored optics and silvered, inhuman mouthparts that did nothing to inspire reassurance. “Who is--?” he began to ask Tracks, then cut himself off as he caught sight of the mech’s unusually broad chestplates, clad in a familiar overlapping armor-segments. If anything, the mech had an even more boxy shape to his torso than Blaster. “Hey, that’s another carrier. Like Blaster, right?” Raoul hadn’t worked on too many Chronicler-carriers other than Blaster, if only because it was a fucking pain to deal with Tentacles’ jealous hovering whenever another carrier came into the shop. Still, the frametype was pretty distinctive. 

“Blaster?" Track’s vocalizer stuttered, the mechanic fixing Raoul with an incredulous gaze. Before he could reply, a flash of scarlet cut through the air. A birdlike mech--a symbiont, it had to be, though not like any Raoul had ever seen before--swooped low over the crowd, settling neatly upon the strange mech’s heavy-pauldroned shoulder with an elegant backsweep of silver and black wings. Tracks subvocalized a curse, a grinding squeal punctuated by staccato stops. “The frag--Raoul, that’s *Soundwave*.”

"And I'm supposed to know who that is?"

"Raoul," Tracks hissed, "Soundwave is Prime's chief of intelligence."

"But Shiny and Overkill like us, right? No reason to worr--" 

Tracks clapped his hand over Raoul, scooping him up and dragging him down from the mechanic’s shoulder. // _Raoul! You cannot talk about the Dyad like that! Should anyone listening have the human language pack installed, those names could be interpreted as a serious offense! Soundwave has both the means and the authority to buy all five humans, should he wish to. His presence alone is... Raoul, everything you do or say aloud could be reported to the Prime and Protector’s enforcers, who are much less likely to be amused by your presumption. Soundwave hears *everything.* Please, *please* just don’t say a word about them!_ //

Raoul gripped hard on Tracks’s fingers, biting back a curse. The fuck with this intelligence crap -- if this Soundwave puto bid on all these humans... // _Fine. Switch my view, then, so I can see if he pulls any shit. And let me back up. And quit grabbing me like some kind of fragging toy,_ // he demanded, and Tracks complied reluctantly. 

Angrily, Raoul smoothed his datapad out against Tracks’s shoulderplates once he’d regained his place on the mech’s shoulder. The screen flickered as Tracks searched the available channels, then settled as he finally found a camera angle focussed on the crowd. 

The dark carrier-mech--Soundwave--looked neither left nor right, but continued walking forward, straight through the assembled mecha, until he stood directly in front of the auction stage. The Tower auctioneer faltered, his vocalizer falling silent under that red-visored, impassive gaze. Raoul’s hands tightened on Tracks’ plating--had Soundwave been sent to stop the auction? But the dark carrier said nothing, made no motion to intervene, and the auction gradually resumed.

The bidding offers, however, were lackluster and hesitant. Raoul, via Tracks, won the auction at thirty-four thousand as the other bidders’ enthusiasm waned. Raoul could practically feel how all the mechs here tried not to stare at Not-Blaster. The auctioneer, too, seemed more nervous, and when Raoul dared to look, the red minibot suddenly seemed a whole lot less confident as he drew his datajack out of the human’s still-jerking body. 

At least it seemed the fucking minibot’s ‘demonstration’ was supposed to end when the auction did. The crimson mech picked up the trembling and sweat-soaked human, carrying him offstage to make way for the next offering.

The next guy chivvied on stage was older--according to the translated glyphs, pushing forty--and one of the Tower-seconds. If Raoul had to guess, his age was probably why the guy had been put up for sale, given the Towers’ constant appetite for new playthings. 

Despite this new human’s higher status as a Tower-second, and his higher field-ratings, the assembled mecha were still a great deal more hesitant about bidding, the mood far more subdued. Still, the temptation posed by such a highly sought-after prize was too much for the crowd to resist entirely, even under Soundwave’s scarlet-visored gaze. 

The price for the new guy started high, at almost twenty-five thousand credits, and began creeping inevitably upward, bids trickling in stubbornly. The auctioneer-mech did his best to talk up this offering, lauding the poor fucker’s responsiveness and his resilience, trying to make the guy sound like the hottest fucking thing that ever walked across the stage, but apparently a Tower-second’s credentials didn’t require a public demonstration. Or maybe they just didn’t want to push their luck with Tall-n-Scary standing right there. 

Whatever the reason, Raoul didn’t care--the guy might be sold off like fucking merchandise, but at least he wasn’t going to be raped. 

The numbers climbed, and Raoul knew that buying the guy was going to put a serious dent in his credits. If he were smart, he’d wait for the next, lower-ranked guy and maybe try for the chica as well. He looked down at the slate, just as the camera zoomed in for a brief shot of the guy’s face, lingering on the man’s flat, resigned expression--and a lead weight seemed to settle in the pit of his stomach. Fuck. 

“This one too,” he hissed at Tracks, jabbing him with a comm ping-thing at the same time. 

Tracks gave him a dubious look. “Are you sure, Raoul? He’s going to be expensive.”

“I’m sure,” Raoul said, crossing his arms stubbornly and ignoring his own misgivings. “‘Sides, look at his ratings. He’ll make a good addition to the shop.”

Tracks shrugged--carefully, making sure the fluid shifting of plating didn’t unseat his fragile organic passenger--and turned his attention back to the auction. Raoul watched as the first bid attached to Tracks’s glyph-identifier appeared on the data slate, and Tracks added, “They’re your credits. Just don’t yell at me when you don’t have any left by the time this is over.” 

Tracks turned out to be right. Unfortunately. Raoul managed to win, but not as easily or as cheaply--the bids on the second guy went up to over fifty-five thousand credits before the last few stubborn bidders dropped out of the race, leaving Tracks and Raoul with one more human. And not much in the way of credits. Which meant that unless any of the remaining three humans ended up being dirt-cheap--which wasn’t fucking likely--Raoul didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of buying a third. And certainly not the chica. Mierda. It shouldn’t feel worse to leave a woman with these putos than a guy, but somehow, it still did. If Raoul hadn’t bid early, hadn’t been so stupid... “These fuckers really want a human toy of their own, don’t they?” 

“Of course,” Tracks replied. “Humans are still very rare on Cybertron. And demand is increasing rapidly.” He tilted his helm, looking sidelong at Raoul. “You knew before we ever decided to come that you would not be able to buy them all. Why are you so upset?”

“Yeah, well, knowing something isn’t the same as seeing it, okay?” Raoul said, scowling. He looked down at the slate, at the lines of glyphs that represented the three remaining humans. They should probably leave; there was no point in staying just to watch the other two humans be sold off as sextoys. But … somehow, it felt wrong. Raoul might not have been able to save the rest of the humans, but that didn’t mean he had to pretend not to care. And maybe … maybe if they knew who the other humans’ new owners were, maybe Blaster or one of the others could cut a deal later on. 

Not all groups of humans worked together well, especially when they didn’t share a language. Raoul had heard stories from the others in his little clan -- bullying was common, food cubes got stolen, and when one of the guys in a group was physically weaker, or when men were put in with women.... as if it wasn’t enough to be raped by the aliens. If he didn’t manage to buy her, which it was looking more and more like, maybe he could... check up on the chica. Somehow. 

And if wishes were tortillas, everyone could eat. But that just wasn’t the way the galaxy worked, was it?

The third guy was dragged out. He was another newbie, fresh from earth. Raoul flinched. He knew what that meant -- another fucking demonstration. Fuck. He still had... sixteen, maybe seventeen thousand credits, give or take. Maybe it would be enough, especially now that this Soundwave guy had cooled off the bidding. Raoul scrolled back to the screen that showed the crowd again. He found the big mech in exactly the same place, the mechanical bird on his shoulder as still as if it was carved, long tail neatly coiled around the guy’s arm. Creepy fucker.

And the dark carrier looked up, directly into the hidden camera. It felt like that glowing red visor was staring right at Raoul, even on the little datapad. 

A line of glyphs scrolled across the screen, and the entire hall fell silent. Raoul could feel the tension around him -- the hum of high coolant pressure, the sensation of a hundred electromagnetic fields buzzing with unease. The announcer cleared his vocalizer-thingie, said something. “What? What the fuck just happened?” Raoul demanded.

Tracks turned his head to look at Raoul, all four mechanical eyes wide. // _Soundwave... Soundwave just placed a bid on this human. Fifteen thousand._ //

Fifteen, fuck. “Then we can get this gu--”

// _No!_ // Tracks jerked like he wanted to grab Raoul down again, his comm ringing so loud inside Raoul’s skull that he was gonna have a headache all day. Tracks clenched his fists. // _The last thing we need is attention from the enforcers. This is *Soundwave*, Raoul. He gets what he wants. You hear this silence? That’s because nobody is fragging single-threaded enough to bid *against* him._ // 

And the silence was undeniable. That single bid sat there on the datapad, next to a sharp-looking name glyph, surrounded by ten intricate modifiers. 

The announcer’s plating was pressed tight against his frame. At last he spoke, and words scrawled across the screen. -- _Bid registered in the shss*ee’e, this auction_ \--

Raoul drew a deep breath, and cupped his hands around his mouth. Some of these putos had to have downloaded earth’s languages. 

“Sixteen thousand!” he shouted, as loud as he could.


	2. Chapter 2

There was an instant of shocked silence--then a rising tide of metallic chattering and clicking erupted throughout the hall. Raoul squeaked as Tracks grabbed him for a third time, significantly less gently than before. “Slag it, Raoul--!”

“Hey, just because you don’t have the cojones doesn’t mean I’m gonna let Tall-n-Scary over there take whoever he likes!” Raoul hissed back, trying to peer through the impromptu cage of Tracks’ fingers, the large mech trying to hide him as a sea of wide, curious optics turned towards them both. If the dark carrier was surprised by Raoul’s shout, it didn’t show; he hadn’t moved, his focus never wavering from the stage. But the bird-thing on his shoulder had twisted its impossibly-long neck around, laserlike scarlet optics now fixed on Raoul’s partially-hidden form through a gap in the crowd. Raoul shrank back in spite of himself, suddenly feeling very small under that predatory gaze. 

The auctioneer mech, on the other hand, didn’t seem to know what to do with the situation. He’d tilted his helm slightly, the pose of a mech communicating with his superiors--Raoul might not be an expert yet on giant robot body language, but that at least he’d learned to recognize real quick from his time in Kalis Tower.

The pause didn’t last long--barely a handful of Raoul’s thudding heartbeats--and then the auctioneer turned his attention to Tracks. He said something; a long, descending slide of chitters and discordant metal chirps that Raoul couldn’t translate without his data slate or Tracks’ help. “What? What did he say?”

// _He said--_ // Tracks hesitated. // _He said that my organic cannot legally place a bid in this auction without a Cybertronian to undersign the contract, and he asked me if I wished to sponsor the bid. Raoul--are you sure about this? There will be other humans. Buying three at one auction will be noticeable, even for my shop, and bidding against Soundwave …._ //

// _I’m sure,_ // Raoul replied, hoping like hell he sounded more confident than he felt. // _We’ve come this far--I’m not gonna back out now._ //

Tracks vented a sigh; Raoul could feel his hands dip slightly as his frame slumped. Then he straightened, and must have sent some signal to the auctioneer, for another ripple of chittering surprise went through the crowd. All attention now turned back to Soundwave, waiting to see what he would do. Smoothing out the datapad the best he could while still being clutched to Tracks’s chest, Raoul tried not to let his nervousness show. He didn’t have the funds to go much higher. What if the dark carrier decided he was offended at being outbid by an uppity human? Or worse, what if someone else decided that if Tracks could bid on the merchandise, so could he? He fisted his hands, refusing to look up at the stage. Instead he watched the numbers on the slate, waiting for them to change.

They didn’t.

Time seemed to stretch, measuring in eons. But Soundwave didn’t move, didn’t bid--and no one else appeared to be willing to share in Tracks’s sudden notoriety. The auctioneer mech made a few halfhearted-sounding attempts at trying to talk up his merchandise, but otherwise seemed resigned to the inevitable. And after a few more minutes--the glyph signifying the end of auction flashed on the slate.

With Tracks’s name-glyph as the winner.

“Ffuuuuck …” Raoul breathed, slumping in relief. They’d won. They’d actually won, and Tall-n-Scary hadn’t done anything to stop it. Watching as the guy was led off the stage, he grinned up at Tracks. // _See? What’d I tell you? The Raoul-man is never wr--_ //

And then the chica was led out on stage, and Raoul forgot everything he had been intending to say. 

From her picture, he’d thought she was pretty. He’d been wrong. She was fucking *gorgeous*. 

Blonde, curvy in all the right places, with legs that went on forever and tits he wanted to cup so bad--she didn’t just walk onto that stage, she *owned* it, even with a chain around her neck, and Raoul fell instantly in love. Or at least in lust. Was kinda hard to tell, given how fast the blood was draining to parts south.

Before the announcer even opened his mouthparts, a nameglyph popped up on Raoul’s screen. The same distinctive one, with the ten weird little modifiers, and a string of numbers and glyphs he didn’t recognize. // _Fuck. Tracks, translate this for me,_ // Raoul demanded, too impatient for math, squirming in the cage of the big mech’s fingers. 

Tracks looked down, mouthplates tight. // _A hundred thousand, Raoul. For both of the remaining humans._ //

Raoul crumpled the datapad up in his fists. 

// _What the frag -- you never said we could bid on several at once!_ // If only he’d waited, had saved up, done something different-- god, a beautiful thing like that, stuck with a scary-ass, stuck up, spying creep of a puto? And the last dude down there, too, the final Tower-second.

// _It isn’t possible to bid on several articles at once, but nobody’s going to argue with --_ // 

Raoul didn’t want to hear it. // _How do we get to this guy, Tracks?_ //

// _Wh-what?!_ //

// _You heard me. How do we find out where he’s at? We gotta get in to see her, or barter for her, or --_ //

Another murmur went through the crowd, and for a second, Raoul thought maybe he’d been speaking out loud. There was movement up on stage, the minibot ducking back to grab the last human with a gesture of helplessness towards the announcer. But all eyes were fixed elsewhere in the audience, and Raoul craned to look. Cursing, he smoothed out his datapad. 

Someone else had placed a bid over Soundwave. A mech’s engine stuttered in shock, a distinctive sound, and the crowd stirred uneasily. Raoul paged through his available camera angles. Mechs in the back of the auditorium were leaving, slipping furtively out, perhaps sensing trouble. Raoul caught a glimpse of black metal wings and bright yellow plating clinging to the engravings that crusted one of the sweeping sidewalls -- another of those huge bird symbionts? 

It moved too fast to be sure, slipping out of sight, with only the nervous eddy of the surrounding mecha betraying its passage. // _Raoul. We do not ‘get to’ Soundwave. Please, just *please.* We’ve already attracted his attention -- do you want to endanger our shops even more? All the other humans?_ //

Raoul fixed Tracks with a glare. // _If you won’t help, I’ll get Blaster to. Dammit, what is going on out there?_ //

Tracks snorted quietly. // _Trust me on this, Raoul. You should not tell Blaster that you wish to see Soundwave._ // Tracks cast a glance towards the exit, and his chestplates trembled a little as he drew a cooling vent. The mechs in the back apparently weren’t the only ones who wanted out. // _It appears... that Soundwave is making it very clear that he is watching the bidding mecha here. As if anyone needed a reminder._ // Tracks went very still. //Look up.//

Still snarling, Raoul did. 

From five stories over his head, glittering cerulean eyes stared back. 

It was another of those bird-dragon things, but this one was bright as a phoenix, more golden even than Steeljaw. The symbiont clung effortlessly to the carvings in the ceiling, long neck twisted around to regard Raoul with the kind of intensity that made him feel about three inches tall. Most big mechs looked right through him, ignored him, like he was a thing that didn’t fit neatly into their metal world. But not symbionts. They saw *everything.* 

And Raoul hadn’t seen him at all. How the hell had he missed the symbiont, as bright as this guy was? Well, if the symbiont thought he could watch them, then Raoul was gonna watch him right back. See how Big Bird fragging liked that. Raoul tried to wriggle to his feet in Tracks’s tight grasp.

Tracks turned suddenly, shouldering his way through the thinning crowd. “What the -- woah!” Raoul protested. // _Where are we going?_ // The chica was still up there, and he’d never find out where she went, and with hips like that... // _Stop!_ // Tracks didn’t. “Stop, dammit!”

// _No. We’re going to pick up your new humans. Before you do anything *else* half-clocked._ //

 

\------

 

Their private transport back home from the auction was tense and silent. Raoul was still furious with Tracks, and Tracks was angry with him, and the three new humans were all obviously miserable, even after being released from the confines of their cube. Tracks sat ramrod still on one of the benches, but Raoul could see how he was following the motions of every human intently. Just as well that Tracks had listened to Raoul’s instructions and had opened the transport cube for his three... acquisitions, once they’d left the auction hall.

Raoul looked at the guys-- the two Asian ones and the gringo. Asian number one, the one that had gotten plugged by that red minibot, was huddled in a corner, knees to his chest, although that probably was hell on his abused backside. The other two sat on the transporter benches that were sized for minibots, and looked like little kids. They shot both him and Tracks hesitant glances, those at Tracks filled with fear and revulsion, those at Raoul filled with... well, also with fear and revulsion, mostly from the second Asian who had a crooked nose which only intensified his sneer. But there also was a bit of calculation, which Raoul didn’t like at all. 

Just great.

Raoul cleared his throat and smiled. “So, since we’re all gonna be workin’ together, what’s your names?”

Silence. He could feel that Tracks was curiously watching them, but the mechanic did like he always did with new humans -- let Raoul draw them out of their shells. Seemed like this time, Raoul had a tough bit of work cut out for him.

“I’m Raoul, and this is Tracks,” he patted Tracks’s arm, “and we’ve got one of the premier detailing shops in Kalis. We do things a bit differently from what you’re probably used to. He’s a nice guy, and he knows that you’ve got just as much right to live, make your own choices and make a living.” Alright, he was laying it on a bit thick, but he was working to build some trust. “Means that you’ve got a right to food, water, and shelter without you having to do a single thing. No plugs, no detailing work, nothing.”

// _Raoul._ //

Raoul tried to hide his grimace at the same time as watching the three guys. // _Not now,_ // he sent to Tracks as he studied their reactions. Gringo -- sporty, friendly face -- frowned in suspicion, while Crooked Nose scowled. Shy Guy just looked at them every now and then, but didn’t react at all beyond raising his head whenever Raoul started talking.

He felt like he was talking to a wall of silence. This was the toughest group yet, but he wouldn’t be Raoul Jesus Candelario Rivera if he gave up so quickly! “Look, believe it or not, but it’s true. But food cubes, water, and a place to sleep is all you’re gonna get without work. You see what we have, and you’re gonna want some clothes, blankets, pillows of your own pretty soon. And that’s where the work comes in. You’re going to get paid, and with that money you can do whatever you want.”

Gringo finally replied, in a rough voice heavy with sarcasm. “So instead of forcing the rape on us, you want us to become your prostitutes.”

Raoul rolled his eyes. “One, I’m not a pimp. Two, there’s lots of work to be done without even getting close to a plug. And three: you went through the training facilities same as I did. You can’t tell me you haven’t done and agreed to the non-invasive stuff before. If you want to do more than that, and get the money that comes with it, it's up to you. And if you only want to do waxing, that’s fine too.” Bunch of people at the shop had started out that way, and a few had only been willing to handle symbionts, who weren’t as mech-like. Still, if First Aid was correct, then it was a good thing they’d gotten more comfortable and done more servicing over time. People in other places, who didn’t, got sick... and that was a smelting-pit mess that he’d address with these guys later. Much later.

// _Raoul._ //

He took care to not to show any reaction. New guys sometimes had pretty extreme views on the comm hardware. // _Can’t you see that I’m on a roll here? Lemme finish talking to them ‘fore you stick your big nose in._ //

// _I do not have a --_ //

“So,” he continued, as if Tracks had never interrupted him, “we’ve got some pretty awesome opportunities for you if you’re willing to work hard and pull your weight. If you’ve got any problems, you come to me or Tracks. And if _you_ cause any problems, we’re the ones who’ll come to you. I’ve heard of some pretty shitty stuff going down in some other places, and there ain’t gonna be any of that with us. Situation’s fucked up enough that we humans don’t need to make it even harder on ourselves. Comprende?”

Gringo nodded slowly, Crooked Nose sneered, and Shy Guy completely ignored them.

Fabulous.

“Here’s to working together!” Raoul extended his hand, not letting his cheer be dimmed by the less than enthusiastic response. They’d get it soon enough.

// _Are you finished now?_ // Tracks’s mental voice once again slated itself into his thought process, and if Raoul hadn’t been 99 percent sure that Tracks wouldn’t know sarcasm if it bit him in the aft, he’d say that this would be a prime example.

// _Yes, now what is it?_ // he commed back, even as he lowered his hand when none of the three wanted to shake it.

// _The one in the corner doesn’t understand your language._ //

He felt like banging his head against something hard. Preferably Tracks’ helmet, because couldn’t he have said something sooner? // _... I knew that. So translate, already._ //

// _Raoul. Your planet hosts some six thousand nine hundred distinct lan--_ //

// _Well, start with the most common ones, then!_ // Honestly, was it so hard to expect a bit of common sense? If it was Blaster here, Tentacles would have already been chatting animatedly with the poor guy for breems.

Tracks paused. “Nǐ huìbúhuì jiǎng guóyŭ? Se habla español? Do you speak English?” 

Raoul buried his head in his hands. Well, what the fuck ever. He was bound to hit on the right language, eventually. Right?

 

\-----

 

Sparkplug set his plate quietly on the table, stepped over the cube-block that apparently was intended to be a chair, and seated himself. It felt strange and itchy to be wearing pants again after such a long time, and he hadn’t been able to bear the feeling of a shirt on his skin.

At least he wasn’t the only one still semi-naked. There were more than ten other guys at the table, half of them wearing nothing but pants, and Sparkplug tried to remember if he had been introduced to them in the whirlwind of his arrival the day before. He came up with nothing, except for the Hispanic from the transport. Raoul.

And they all were currently sitting in the makeshift open-air mess hall, a space they called ‘ten-forward.’ It had taken him an embarrassingly long time to get the joke, even though he had been a rabid Star Trek fan as a kid. It was just so unexpectedly... human, the reference. Human, like so many other things here.

Their quarters had taken over an entire side room in the detailing shop. Apartments, all identical from the outside, were stacked on three sides of a central large open space with the tables and food-cube dispenser. Well, apartments was maybe a bit too much to call them. The one Sparkplug had been given, all of them actually, reminded him of the terrarium-like cage in which he’d spent the last ten years. But it was opaque, at least, and had a light he could turn on or off. It was also equipped with an actual bed, a shower and lavatory, and a proper door. A door he could open and close, without any alien trying to lock him in. A chance for complete privacy. 

After spending so much time in the close company of other men, though, it seemed unnaturally quiet, empty. It was also on the third level of apartments, accessible by stairs. His legs ached already, unused to so much walking, to so much space. And wearing clothing felt even stranger. 

The bald man seated next to him smiled in welcome, and surreptitiously slipped a handful of small orange and red orbs onto Sparkplug’s plate, next to the food cubes that Sparkplug had already collected from the dispenser. Sparkplug picked one up, uncertain, before realization swamped him: a grape tomato. He stared at it for a long, long time, wondering whether he was having a hallucination. He noticed he got a couple of glances, but nobody said anything. The bald guy just patted his shoulder and went back to the conversation he had been having before.

Eventually, Sparkplug ate it. It tasted like sunlight, like summer. Like Earth.

He had to force himself to nod in thanks and start in on his pile of cubes, saving the rest of the tomatoes for last. He wanted that flavor to linger. Instead he bit into his tasteless sponge. Raoul had told him yesterday that the alien food was free -- as much as he wanted, whenever he wanted. He hadn’t quite believed it, but the box with food cubes was large enough to feed all of them for several weeks at a minimum. And there was no lock; anyone could go there and take some. The people around the table seemed well-fed, skin healthy, eyes clear, some with slightly rounded stomachs, though back and arm muscles stood out on everyone. There was no starvation here. And if they had tomatoes...

The alien had left his cage for two weeks without food, once -- one guy had gnawed into his arm. Another.... if it’d gone on another day, there would have been cannibalism. Hard to keep anyone sane, after that. 

It took him a few moments to focus on the ongoing conversation.

“--so I dug up the cube this morning, and the damn thing looked just like when it’d gone into the ground. Clean-cut edges and everything, no sign of composting.” A black man with a british accent shook his head, hands spread in roughly cube shape. “I think we’re back to piss.”

“I wonder what would happen if we try dissolving it first,” pondered a sandy-haired, older man, taking a contemplative bite of his own food cube. “If we get our hands on some hydrochloric acid, or some way to decrease the PH, it might work. Breaks down well enough in our stomachs, after all.”

“Yeah, but the acid might burn the plants, too,” pointed out another. 

“Won’t know until we try it. But in the meantime...”

“Great, always wanted a garden bin that smells like a lavatory,” snorted someone at the other end of the table. 

They were talking about growing things, Sparkplug realized. Real plants and all, probably where the tomatoes had come from. They had to have a garden, he thought dizzily. A real fucking garden with real fucking vegetables. And the entire time since he had been dropped off here, he hadn’t seen a single mech, only humans. 

There were eleven people around the table -- more than Sparkplug had seen all at once for the past... ten years? Longer? He could still name everyone he’d met in that hell, he thought. Sixteen -- no, seventeen guys. Not all at once. Each had been dumped into the cage, one at a time, just after the alien removed a corpse from the little cube. At least thirteen of the guys were dead. He didn’t know about the others. Eventually, he had grown numb to the constant coming and going, even numb to the fear that he was going to be the next one to buy it.

He took another bite and looked at the tomatoes. If it wasn’t for the breathing masks, the food cubes, and the clearly alien everything around (not to mention that their ‘outdoors’ was just another huge, alien-sized room), he could almost believe himself back on earth. Well, maybe not quite. Maybe the Enterprise comparison was better. But the sheer human *normality* stumped him.

Especially the conversation about growing things. His dad had been a gardening fanatic, so all the talk about fertilizer and stuff during mealtime was eerily familiar. Though his dad probably wouldn’t have gone so far as to piss on his plants. Maybe, if he had lived through the Bad Years, but... he had died before that.

Raoul, who had been uncharacteristically quiet so far, rolled his eyes. “I’ll talk to Tracks, maybe he can whip up some kinda individual dryer, or whatever, something that won’t stink. So at least we won’t haveta ask people to piss in a communal bucket again when we need fertilizer.”

That suggestion was met with nods all around. “Have you heard anything about the eggplant?”

Raoul snorted. “Still can’t figure what you see in the damn things, but yeah, seeds should be coming in next week, along with another cubic meter of dirt; pick ‘em up Tuesday after second shift. Speaking of which...”

“Who’ve we got today?”

“Lemme see.” Raoul pushed his own plate aside, making room for a thin, flat paper-looking device. An employee table? “A pair of frontliners at oh-eight hundred, new guys, in for detail. Just one special, though. Bruce?”

“Yeah,” said the black man. “My team will take ‘em.”

“Que bueno. Take Vera too, she’s been talking about wanting to branch out to warframes. I think she’s on third shift?” 

The man who’d given Sparkplug the tomatoes leaned over. “Nobody works more than ten hours in a day, but a full detailing can take more than that, so teams are split up into shifts,” he murmured, the words lengthened by a southern drawl. “You can sign up for steady shifts, or list yourself as on call -- available whenever. More work that way. Hell on your sleep schedule, though.”

“Teams?” Sparkplug asked.

“Yeah. Bruce, Louisa, and Raoul. Good guys. They mainly organize the shifts, keep things on schedule.”

Sparkplug had missed the second announcement. He jerked as Raoul leaned back and shouted up to one of the upper walkways, edging the top level of apartments. “Yo Louisa! You want a Chronicler, at fourteen hundred hours?”

“¿Cuántos chicos tienes?” called down a woman, sounding sleepy. Her section of balcony was traced with twining shoots, a few limp and sickly-looking leaves gamely striving upward from the struggling plants. The air here, Sparkplug had noticed, was better than in the other places he’d been. Not quite good enough for free-growing plants, apparently, but... better. He hadn’t woken up choking due to an inadvertent breath through his mouth last night, and that was damned nice.

“Four!” 

Four what? Sparkplug had quickly realized that there were more than one language spoken here, and that parts of the conversations tended to happen in rapid-fire Spanish. Well, at least around Raoul. He wondered how Ananda was faring, the guy who hadn’t even known English. Sparkplug hadn’t seen him ever since the transport -- or Lian Xiaobo, the other Asian he had been bought with. Sure, Raoul had told him that they were in the other detailing shop, but it was kind of hard to believe. He was too used to seeing people go and never return.

“Sure thing!” she shouted back, her voice richly accented.

“What about you, Sparkplug?” Raoul said, and eleven pairs of eyes turned to him. “Feel up to taking on a little light work? Only as much and for as long as you want -- some people don’t want to do anything at all for the first week or two.”

“I didn’t,” grinned the bald man beside Sparkplug, leaning back. He apparently wasn’t entirely comfortable in clothing either, wearing just a pair of shorts. No one at the table was entirely nude, though some came pretty close. “You’ll like the symbionts, though, they’re easier to get used to.”

“Symbionts?” said Sparkplug. Had that been one of the choices?

“Yeah. Seriously, it’s like going to the zoo. Not intimidating at all.”

 

\-----

 

“You,” Sparkplug told the bald man, “are a goddamn liar.” 

He’d spent the entire ‘morning’ in the airlock garden-closet, just marvelling at the textures of plants he never thought he’d see again, taking a turn at pollinating the tomatoes, melon vines, corn, and more. And he still had trouble believing there was a real spot of earth on this god-forsaken metallic planet. It had been ages since he’d seen so much green, or any at all, really.

He ate, showered again, took another nap under a flowering papaya tree, until Louisa came to collect him. The trek back into the shop had been long, especially as they’d kept to the marked-off pathways that ran along the walls. To make sure they weren’t stepped on by the robots, Louisa had explained. Sparkplug hadn’t spotted any, but he could hear them passing by, out in the giant sized corridor, bleeping and chirping behind closed doors. Their little group of six had split up where two human-sized corridors met, Louisa and two others heading off to handle the ‘Chronicler’, whatever that was. 

And then Sparkplug and the other two had opened a door into an occupied room. ‘Occupied’ by a fuckin’ twenty foot long mechanical snake. 

The bald guy -- David -- was still chortling. “Man, you should’a seen your face.” The enormous snake pushed its head under his hand, and David absently stroked the scale-like plating there. “No no, look, I’m sorry. But damn.” 

“I’m itchy,” said the snake. In perfect English. And then proceeded to turn a reproachful look on David. “And I have these sscrapes on my dorsal flexuress that haven’t been buffed out ssince last time ...” 

Sparkplug took a step to the side. He had to force his fingertips to relax, he’d clutched the padded wall so hard. Hell, he’d nearly levitated straight up the vertical surface. Because, well. Talking giant red and green snake. “Uh--I don’t ... you mean we ...?”

“Sorry, sorry,” David said, still grinning. “Sparkplug, meet Stringtheory. Stringtheory, this is Sparkplug. He’s new; never seen a symbiont before.”

“Obvioussly,” the snake said, its smooth-scaled face still somehow managing to look sardonic. It undulated forward, gliding smoothly on its belly-plates with the barest scrape of metal on metal. It could lift its forebody to look any of them in the eye without apparent effort, as limber as a true earth serpent but far stronger. “I apologize for David,” it said primly. “He likess teasing people. *Ssometimes* he won’t even finish what he startss.” It tilted its head, giving David a coy look. At least Sparkplug thought it was a coy look. Did snakes flirt? Apparently this one did.

“Aw, you know I love you best,” David retorted, not even a little bit fazed as a long emerald and crimson-plated tail curled possessively around his waist. He stroked fingers down the semi-flared spines along the snake’s crest with casual affection. “Even if you don’t come to see us for a whole month.”

“It’ss only been a couple of orn!”

“Like I said. A month!”

The affectionate banter continued as Sparkplug hesitantly moved to pick up the polishing supplies piled up along a nearby human-high shelf. Those, at least, he knew how to deal with.

The other member of their little cleaning party had already collected the things he’d needed -- probably during Sparkplug’s moments of sheer panic -- and was headed down a set of oversized stairs towards a pool of some kind. The scale of everything here ranged from improbable to downright boggling. Sparkplug picked up a thickly-folded microfiber towel.

“Halp,” squeaked a breathy little voice.

Sparkplug froze, heart hammering. Then he crouched down.

Metal barrels -- about the size of ten gallon buckets -- were stacked three deep on the floor in the shadows under the shelving. Extra supplies, Sparkplug guessed -- more than he could recall having even back on earth, at the training facility. But that wasn’t all that was down there.

“I’m stuck,” wheezed the little voice again. 

Sparkplug swallowed. Was this another robotic snake, as thick as his thigh and big enough to swallow a man whole? “H-how did you get stuck? Can’t you just slither out?” 

“No,” the voice said. Something stirred from between two barrels. “I was gonna try to get a scrubbie but then it moved and I landed all bad and, uhm. Now I’m stuck.” A small yellow dot craned around to peer at him as best it could.

Well, fuck. There was probably another goddamn rape bot down there. Sparkplug cast a glance back at David, who was wrapped up in his work -- literally. Well. Hell. Sparkplug gripped the big metal canister and walked it backwards, like a tank of nitrogen; whatever was in the thing was damn heavy.

A small orange and dark brown bat came tumbling out afterwards, wings all akimbo. 

Small was relative with the aliens, but hell if it didn’t look exactly like a bat, about the size of his torso if its wings were folded in. Stubby little feet kicked at the air. “Oh, thank you! Uhm,” said the bat, peering at him upside down. Its mechanical eyes were pale gold, its head fox-like and a little squashed-looking. Sparkplug could see the tiny gears and parts inside exposed joints, delicate and glimmering, like the miniature insides of one of those oldtime clockwork watches. “Hi.” 

What the hell was he supposed to do now? “Hello,” Sparkplug managed.

“Uhm.” The bat hop-flailed a little, wings and legs going in every direction but the right way, and managed only to scoot itself farther back into the space between canisters. “I, uh ... I don’t think I know you. Where’s Henry?” 

“I’m new,” said the mechanic, more than a little at a loss. “Henry’s... down there by the pool, I think.”

“Oh.” The bat managed to right itself, clinging to one of the other canisters. It pushed itself a little more into the shadows, staring at him, shy. 

“So. Do you have a name?” The bat just peered at him. Sparkplug wasn’t exactly the touchy-feely sort, not even as a car mechanic, and certainly not after everything he’d gone through. Still, the critter wasn’t any bigger than a toddler, and he felt like a jerk. Damn. “My name’s Sparkplug, by the way. Look, uh ... is this the brush you wanted?” he asked, plucking one at random from the hanging rack. 

The little bat paused, then shook its head. 

“Alright. What about this one?” 

Another shake of the head. After a brief moment of wary consideration, the little bat-thing pointed at one of the smaller brushes on the far side of the rack. 

“That one?” He stretched, lifting it off its hook, and offered it to the little mech. “Here ya go.” 

Round gold optics regarded him. “I haven’t seen you before.” 

“Yeah--I’m new.” Sparkplug ran a hand through his hair. He was talking to a bat. An alien robot bat. Who was apparently not too keen on strangers. Just when he thought things couldn’t get any more surreal …. “Look, um--I’m not a bad guy, I promise. Are you hurt? Do you want me to take you back to the others?”

The bat kept staring at him.

“Or I could go fetch Henry so that he can carry you?” Sparkplug offered, increasingly at a loss at what to do.

The fox-like head suddenly jerked as the bat looked behind Sparkplug for a moment, only to look back at him again. “Stringtheory says you’re *afraid* of me,” it said with suspicion in its voice.

Sparkplug tensed, and ran his hand through his hair again. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he could only repeat, hoping that was enough to not get the other robots involved or, worse, on his case. That would be a helluva way to make a first impression.

“Wingthing.”

Sparkplug blinked. “What?”

“My name’s Wingthing,” the bat said. “And now that you know my name, you don’t have to be afraid of me anymore.”

He didn’t get it. The robots had logical computer-brains, yes? So where the hell was the sense in the bat’s -- Wingthing’s-- sentence?

“If you say so,” Sparkplug finally said. With a sigh, he crouched down to be more of a height with the robot still clinging to the canister. He didn’t know what the hell he was doing, but something in the robot reminded him of a little kid. “You know my name, too, so you don’t have to be afraid of me, either, by the way. So, should I help you get out of there, or should I get Henry?”

The golden optics were incredibly large as they stared at him. “Pick me up,” the robot finally demanded, with none of the shyness that had been present before.

Well, that was a hundred-and-eighty degree turn. Sparkplug hesitated a moment. But it was ridiculous to be wary of a creature so small, and so clearly childlike. Its plating wasn’t any thicker than his thumbnail, the little thumb-claws on its wings scritchy as the bat grabbed for purchase on his shoulders. The little bat was warm, too, not chill like the big mechs. It smelled like a clean-running engine, mechanical and silvery. The bat pressed the side of its head -- and its pointed ear thing -- against Sparkplug’s chest. 

He nearly wrenched his back lifting it up; the little robot had to be sixty pounds, at least, heavier than it looked. Arms wrapped awkwardly around the bat’s plump little body, brush clutched in one fist, Sparkplug carried the robot the short distance to the pool. 

Henry spotted them right away. “Hey, there’s my little bud! Wingthing! Thanks for finding him,” grinned the man, splashing through the ankle-deep liquid. Whatever it was seemed thicker than water -- David was already sitting on the shallowest step, the huge snake coiled and looped loosely around him in the pool, wedge-shaped head resting on his knees while he scritched and petted.

Sparkplug handed the bat off to Henry with relief. He stretched to unkink his back, then blinked. There was a penguin following Henry. A waist-high, goddamn brassy-gold mechanical penguin--if penguins had a double set of wing-flippers and a semi-translucent crest with trailing silvered edges along the head and back. It looked Sparkplug over with a beady azure eye, ducked its head to rub its beak at the edge of a bit of plating as if overcome by a sudden itch, then went splashing away through the shallows, chirping up at Henry. 

Sparkplug found the edge of a rectangular bench and sat down hard, brush still clutched in one hand. Raoul had said that things were different here. He’d not been sure what that meant, exactly, but he hadn’t imagined anything like this. How could he? Life had been a cage, a box, nothing but pain. This... he watched Henry lever himself awkwardly down into the liquid -- some kind of thin oil? -- the little bat still clinging to him like it planned to take a nap right on his chest. The penguin splashed down on its belly beside him, trying to crowd up with the little bat; laughing, Henry scooted to a slightly deeper seat. 

A flicker of movement caught his eye, and Sparkplug turned, froze. A lavender-silver panther--that looked as if it were made out of pastel-colored razorblades--was padding towards him, sleek and sculpted. Beautiful and deadly as any big cat, it placed its flexing, taloned paws with precision, every gear of the creature clicking over with silent efficiency. Sparkplug could hardly even draw a breath. 

The big cat seated itself beside him, long tail flicking to curl around its paws. “Hello,” said the panther, tilting its head to fix him with a vivid green stare. “Are you going to use that brush?”

**Author's Note:**

> \----
> 
> Your clicks, comments, and kudos continue to totally inspire us! We are having so much fun working on this crazy AU, and are just thrilled it is enjoyable to others as well. Thank you so much to everyone who reads, and especially those who encourage us by letting us know. We are totally open to your ideas and questions, so please don't hesitate to share.


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